


Dawn of the Living Dead

by nastally



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Blood and Gore, Dark Comedy, Dubious but not unloving or uncaring consent, Everyone Needs A Hug, Froger Week 2019, Hurt No Comfort, Insanity, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poly!Queen-ish, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, all the zombie movie cliches, maybe a little comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-01-22 21:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21309049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally
Summary: "Zombies." John repeated numbly. "Like in Night of the Living Dead?"None of the others had seen the film."Living... dead?" Freddie echoed in a hollow voice.- - -It's 1971. Queen have finally found a new bassist, when suddenly, very strange events unfold...
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 146
Kudos: 126
Collections: Froger!Week 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, one and all! HAPPY FROGER WEEK 2019!
> 
> So, I decided to take the "Zombie Apocalypse AU" prompt and basically have a ton of fun with it. This isn't really written in my usual style. I was aiming for a crossover between Night of the Living Dead and Shaun of the Dead in tone! I hope it's as disgusting and toe-curling as it is funny.
> 
> Meant as a very morbid, very dark comedy, really. But has sad bits. I mean, the world is ending, what do you expect?
> 
> Not part of the _Dawn of Aquarius_ universe.
> 
> I hope to post the next chapter by the end of Froger week, but can't promise that I will. Either way, I will complete it when I can because I've had a lot of fun writing this.
> 
> Enjoy!

\- - -

DAY 1  
November 4th, 1971

"There's _nothing_ here. Just… nothing!" Freddie complained, huddled in the passenger seat with his fur coat wrapped tightly around himself, as he gestured at the barren trees and muddy fields outside the window. It was sleeting outside and the heating in the van had stopped working last week. Roger's toes were so numb he could barely feel the pedals. 

"It's the countryside, Fred," he pointed out, rolling his eyes. "What do you expect?" 

"I don't know!" Freddie huffed, flicking his hair back. "It's just so terribly _dull_."

"I think it's quite picturesque," Brian chimed in from the back seat, looking out at the grey clouds and the haze of snow and rain.

"You would say that," scoffed Freddie. 

"In a bleak sort of way," Brian explained, undeterred. "Like a Turner painting or something."

John said nothing. He just took another bite of his cheese sandwich. 

"Are you sure we're not lost, dear?" Freddie wondered, narrowing his eyes at a farm house in the distance. 

"_Yes_, I'm sure." Roger insisted, not for the first time. "Besides, you saw what the motorway was like, we would've been stuck there for hours."

"So strange, that." Brian commented absently. "I wonder what happened."

"Probably a pile up or something," Roger shrugged, "what with the weather."

Brian hummed in agreement. Despite the weather, people seemed to be driving like maniacs today. Several cars had passed them on the country road, going at an alarming speed. One had very nearly swerved into them, causing Roger to curse up a storm. 

"I'm _bored_," Freddie sighed, sounding as though he was expecting someone to do something about that, but then immediately added with an excited gasp: "Shall we sing something?" 

"_No_," all three of his bandmates groaned in unison.

"Not again," John moaned. He had suffered through one too many bad renditions of the entire Beatles song catalogue earlier on the drive. 

"Alright, let's play a game," Roger suggested, wiggling his cold fingers on the steering wheel to see if there was still any life in them. "Let's play 'My penis is'." 

"_Yes_," said Freddie emphatically. 

Brian snorted, but in a good-natured sort of way. 

"What?" asked John, not sure he had heard right. 

"Deaky hasn't played it yet!" Freddie snickered and shifted in his seat, turning back around to look at the bassist who was sitting behind him. "It's very simple, dear. You have to say 'My penis is' followed by an adjective starting with 'a'. If someone can't think of a word right away we move on to the next letter, alright?" 

John just blinked at him uncertainly. "Okay?" 

Freddie reached over and patted his knee. 

"Don't worry, it's fun. I'll start. You'll catch on right away," he assured him, and cleared his throat. "My penis is... astounding." 

"My penis is alluring," said Roger, earning himself a snicker from Freddie and Brian. 

"Oooh," Freddie cooed. 

Roger gave him a wink. 

"My penis is arbitrary," said Brian. 

"... My penis is... angelic?" John offered, breaking into a grin. The other three broke out laughing. 

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry, it's my turn," Freddie giggled. 

"Naaah, too late!" Roger grinned. "B!" 

Freddie flicked his wrist. "Alright, my penis is bitchy!" 

"Hah! My penis is... big." Roger smirked, waggling his eyebrows. Freddie tutted and slapped his arm playfully. 

"My penis is benevolent," said Brian. 

"My penis is bonkers," said John, and everyone burst out laughing again. 

"You're good at this!" Freddie clapped his hands together and quickly added: "My penis is bold."

"My penis is bloody!" 

"Ew. My penis is beautiful."

"I'm sure it is, darling!"

"Shut up, Fred."

"My penis is... boring."

"Aw, Deaky! My penis is benevolent." 

"I just said that," Brian pointed out. 

"Shit," Freddie snapped his fingers. "My penis is cocky."

"My penis is cute!" 

"My penis is calculating."

They were on a roll now, wheezing with laughter. 

John glanced at his sandwich. "My penis is cheesy."

"Dearie me! That's disgusting, I _love_ it!" Freddie was wiping tears from his eyes. "My penis is cranky!" 

"My penis is crusty!" 

Everyone guffawed. 

"Ewww!" 

"You should have that checked out, mate!" 

Brian was laughing so hard he had to move on to 'd'. 

"My penis is delirious!" he eventually exclaimed. 

"My penis is..." John said, pausing for dramatic effect. "_dangerous_."

Freddie was hysterical. "Oh, I can't! I can't!" 

"E, Fred!" 

"My penis is-" 

"Roger, WATCH OUT!" John suddenly yelled, pointing at the road ahead. 

Everyone's eyes snapped back to the road. Freddie screamed. Brian clapped both hands over his mouth. Roger gasped and slammed on the breaks, but it was too late. The van hit the woman who had appeared in the middle of the road out of nowhere full on and sent her flying back a couple of yards. They all felt the impact. The van screeched to a halt and the engine spluttered and died. 

There was a dreadful silence, safe for the squeaking of the windshield wipers. It seemed to last forever. Roger thought his heart would give out, it was pounding so hard. 

"_Jesus_," he uttered, all but in tears. "I didn't see her. _I didn't see her_!"

"Oh my _god_," Freddie sobbed beside him, a hand over his mouth. 

The body lay on the road like a rag doll, limbs twisted in awkward directions. None of them had ever seen a dead body, not like _this_, but all four of them were immediately and completely certain that they were looking at a corpse. 

"What- What do we _do_?" Roger asked, his voice high-pitched and trembling, hands frozen in a panicked grip on the steering wheel. 

"She's dead," John uttered in utter disbelief, leaning into Brian's hair as they both tried to get a good look from the back seat. "You killed her."

Suddenly Freddie yelped, startling them all, but a moment later they realised why. The body on the ground was moving. Glassy eyes opened, staring straight ahead and directly at them. Seemingly broken limbs shuddered and twisted, pressing into the ground. And then, she lifted herself up.

"What the..." Brian whispered, grabbing onto Roger's shoulder as he leaned forward as far as he could. Roger and John just stared.

Freddie, meanwhile, was trying to retreat into his fur coat. 

"Oh my god, oh my god! Roger, drive! Drive, drive! _Please_!" he pleaded, squirming in his seat.

But Roger couldn't move. He was transfixed by the _creature_, slowly raising itself up to standing, twisting back into the shape of a human being, and cocking her head in a broken, doll-like way, a snarl on her face. And then, she started _running_. Straight at the van, arms outstretched and teeth bared. 

She threw herself onto the bonnet, bony fingers grabbing at the windshield wipers, growling in a way that didn't sound human, teeth gnashing wildly, and this time, they all screamed.

It was Freddie's hand on Roger's arm, gripping him tightly, shaking him, that finally tore him out of his stupor. 

"GO! GO, GO, FOR GOD'S SAKE, GO!" he was yelling and Roger started the engine again, almost on auto-pilot, and stepped on the gas. 

The van swerved, tires smoking on the road, and pulled off, knocking Brian and John back into their seats and pulling the glassy-eyed woman under. Freddie and Roger turned to the wing mirrors, watching in horror as she rose to her feet again behind them and started running in pursuit of them. 

"Oh fuck," Roger tried to keep his eyes on the road, glancing at the wing mirror where the silhouette behind them was slowly disappearing in the distance. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck!" 

"She was dead..." Freddie whispered, hands on his head, the sound of the engine all but drowning out his voice. "Did you see that?" he slowly turned around to Brian and John. "Did you _see_ that?" 

The two only stared and nodded, eyes wide with shock. Freddie cast another fearful glance at the wing mirror. 

"What _was_ that?" Roger uttered, voicing the question they were all asking themselves, his lower lip trembling. 

"Turn on the radio," Brian murmured quietly, and then repeated it, louder. "Roger, turn on the radio, _now_."

"What?" 

"Just do it!" 

Roger reached for the controls, blindly fumbling with the buttons as though he had completely forgotten how they worked. 

"I'll get it, darling," Freddie said quietly and took over. Static filled the van. It took Freddie a while to find a frequency that was transmitting, albeit broken up by white noise. 

"... facing an epidemic." Freddie turned up the volume. "All UK citizens are advised to stay indoors and... until further notice... to avoid the inner cities. Infected individuals are dangerous and should not be approached under any... military action... contain the outbreak... a virus... and it appears to have..."

Roger turned down the volume, eyes fixed on something straight ahead. 

"Look." 

They had reached the top of a hill, revealing the view of the valley below. There was a small town just down the road, perfectly ordinary as far as small towns go. 

Except there was something very wrong with it. An overturned car lay in the ditch not far off. Other cars had been left on the road, simply abandoned. Thin streams of smoke were rising up from several buildings. 

"I don't like this," Freddie murmured. "Roger, I don't like this."

Brian reached forward and turned the volume back up as Roger slowed down, maneuvering around one of the abandoned cars. The same emergency broadcast was repeating itself on a loop, but they barely listened as the van pulled closer to the edge of the town and they saw them. Dead, mangled bodies littering the road, torn up and bloody. Except they weren't _dead_. Some of them were twitching, some even crawling, like disfigured humanoid slugs. 

"Oh Jesus..." Roger stopped the car, fingers slipping off the gear stick and blindly clasping Freddie's hand. 

"What the fuck," John uttered, his voice about an octave too high. "What the fuck? _What the fuck_?" 

He couldn't stop saying it, even as dread choked him up, and beside him, Brian was pale and shaking. 

"Turn around," he managed to get out. A desperate whisper, and then he found his voice again. "Rog- Roger, turn around! TURN THE CAR AROUND!" 

Because in the distance, no matter which way they looked, they could see them moving. Bodies. That was what they looked like. Human-shaped bodies, with nothing human left in them, dragging themselves out from between the houses, from between the trees. Snarling, growling, arms outstretched and reaching. Some of them stumbling slowly, but some running and heading directly for them. The boys started screaming at Roger to drive, even as he fumbled with the gear stick and threw the car into reverse, swerving backward and right into an abandoned car behind them. 

"FUCK!" 

John's head smacked into Freddie’s seat with the impact. The first handful of creatures reached the van and threw themselves against it, bloodied fingers clawing at the windows and banging against them, their groaning, wheezing grunts and snarls coming from all sides now. Brian frantically checked all the locks on the doors while Roger was trying to wrestle the van into first gear, cursing and yelling. John stared into a pair of glassy, lifeless eyes in shock, an inhumanely twisted face pressed against the window beside him. Freddie had curled up into a ball, sobbing with his hands over his face. Finally the van jerked forward and pulled off, freeing itself from the grasp of the undead horde before too many of them had gathered, leaving them running and staggering and crawling in pursuit of their prey. 

Roger switched gears and took off his glasses, wiping his eyes on his sleeve with a whimper. 

"Just keep driving," Brian said shakily, swallowing hard. "Just keep driving."

For some time, no one said anything else.

"Zombies," John whispered weakly, after a while, dropping the remains of his sandwich onto the floor of the van. He had been squeezing it so tightly it was in bits. Brian and Freddie slowly turned to look at him.

"Zombies." John repeated numbly. "Like in Night of the Living Dead?" 

None of the others had seen the film. 

"Living... dead?" Freddie echoed in a hollow voice. 

"Yeah," John nodded slowly, "They're dead... dead people. And if they bite you..." 

"You turn into one of them," Brian concluded, pointing a trembling finger at the radio. "Shh, listen."

They listened to the emergency broadcast again in terrified silence, staring out at the cold, grey landscape. 

Infected individuals.  
Stay indoors.  
Military action.  
Virus. 

They listened to it three times over before Roger reached down and turned it off.

"We're low on petrol," he informed the others. 

"There." Freddie suddenly gasped. He had been intently staring out of the window for the last few minutes. "There it is." 

Everyone looked to see what he was talking about and spotted the small farm house in the distance which they had passed earlier. There was a dirt road leading up to it, not far off. Roger slowly brought the van to a halt and the four musicians looked at each other, then at the farm house, then out at the barren landscape. It was only afternoon, but the thick clouds darkened the sky, drawing the day to a close early. 

Without a word, Roger pulled off and turned into the dirt road. The van bumped along over rocks and through the mud. They all cringed at the rattling in the back, thinking of their instruments. But then again, what did that matter now? 

Roger slowed down as they neared the farm house and eventually stopped the van, leaving the engine running. 

The place looked eerily quiet. 

"Do you think anyone's inside?" John asked, looking up at the dark windows. What he really wanted to ask was: 'Do you think there's anyone alive inside?' 

His bandmates didn't answer. 

"We need... We need a weapon or something," Roger said slowly. 

"There's that." Brian pointed to the side of the house, at an axe stuck in a tree stump. 

Nobody moved. 

"We... we should all go together," Freddie said quietly. 

The others agreed and slowly undid their seat belts. 

And then, nobody moved. 

Roger killed the engine, keeping the headlights on. "Alright. On three." 

Freddie took a deep, shuddering breath. Brian put his hand on the door handle. 

"One... two... _three_." 

Three of them opened their doors and turned to look at Freddie, who hadn't. 

"I could keep watch…?" 

"You wanna stay in the van?" Roger asked flatly. "...Alone?" 

Freddie considered this for a moment and quickly cracked his door open. They all climbed out and grouped together at the front of the van, clinging on to each other. An icy wind tore at their clothes, covering them in freezing rain. Roger squinted through the raindrops which immediately coated his glasses and took them off, stuffing them into his pocket instead.

"Let's get the axe," Brian whispered. 

"I _am_," Roger hissed back. He found himself in the lead as John clung to his jacket, Freddie to his hand, and Brian to John and Freddie, frantically looking around the open fields and checking behind them. 

They made it to the tree stump without incident. Roger leaned forward and pulled the axe out. The wood of the handle was slippery from the rain. It felt heavier than he had expected, although he hadn't really known what to expect. He'd never held an axe before. 

"Why do _I_ have to have it?" he asked as they edged closer to the door. 

"You hit things for a living," Freddie reasoned. 

"That's not exactly the same, Fred!" 

"Shh!" 

"I'll take it." John offered. 

Everyone stopped and looked at him. 

John shrugged. "If you like?"

Roger steeled himself and held on tighter to the axe and to his male pride. "No."

"Why not?" 

"Deaky, you're the youngest, dearie," Freddie explained. 

"You're the oldest," John shot back, "By that logic _you_ should have it." 

"Shut up, will you!" Brian snapped. 

They reached the front door and exchanged terrified glances. It was slightly ajar. 

Leaning back and peering at the door sideways with one eye squeezed shut, Roger stretched out his hands and gave it a push with the axe. It creaked open and revealed an empty corridor. The wind howled around them, sweeping rain and snow inside. 

They entered on unsteady legs and Brian closed the door behind them as John flicked on the flights. They worked. 

"Hello?" Brian called, quite aware that - end of the world or not - they had just walked into somebody's house armed with an axe. 

Instead of a reply, they heard the sound of something clattering to the floor in a room to their right. 

"Oh my god," Freddie whispered, latching on to Brian's sleeve.

"Anyone home?" Roger's voice cracked, sounding even higher than usual.

There was a grunt and a shuffling sound, slowly heading in their direction. 

"_Oh my god_," Freddie repeated. "It's one of them! It's one of them!" 

"Listen," John hissed urgently, leaning close to Roger, who lifted the axe up high as the shuffling got closer. "Aim for the head. You have to kill the brain!" 

"What??" 

"Just trust me!" 

The moment he had said it, a figure appeared in the doorway to their right and they all staggered backward against the door in terror. 

It was a little old lady in slippers, hunched over and doddery. Roger lowered the axe.

"Oh," Brian breathed a sigh of relief, as did the other three. "We're so sorry-" 

He broke off when the old lady raised her head and turned to face them, her glassy, dead eyes fixing them with an unblinking stare. Her wrinkled lips curled back in a snarl, revealing near toothless gums with a few lone, yellowed teeth sticking out. Her chin was covered in blood.

All four of them screamed bloody murder. 

Her arms snapped up, crooked fingers clawing at them as she staggered forward. 

Still screaming, Roger swung the axe back, narrowingly missing Brian's head, and brought it down right on top of her skull the moment she closed in on them. And there it stuck. The undead creature staggered back, taking the axe with her as Roger lost his grip on the handle. 

"Shit!" 

The zombie flailed, disorientated, turning this way and that. John jumped forward and tried to grab the handle, but missed. The zombie whipped around, and the axe handle hit him square in the face. He lost his balance and fell into Roger, knocking them both into the wall. Brian leapt over them and managed to get his hands on the handle. The axe came free with a squelching sound and the old woman's eyes fixated on him, a gurgling, feral growl coming from her throat. Brian tried to swing the axe back, but there was not enough room. The back of it collided with the wall instead, killing his momentum. He yelped and cowered behind his arm as she sank her claw-like fingers into his clothes, jaws snapping. Roger screamed, again. John would have, too, but his nose was gushing blood.  
Just before her rotten teeth could sink into Brian's shoulder, the long metal ferrule of an umbrella pierced one of her eye sockets and froze her in place. She made a wheezing, hissing sound. With a grunt of effort through gritted teeth, Freddie shoved the umbrella through her eye as far as it would go. 

The zombie keeled over backward and collapsed onto the floor, finally and truly lifeless. 

They all stared at the gruesome sight, panting and wide-eyed.

"Holy shit. Where'd you get the umbrella?!" Roger wondered. 

"It was right here by the door," Freddie mumbled faintly, staring at the way it was now sticking out of a dead person's eye socket. He was strangely proud of himself but also very close to losing his lunch. 

Roger scrambled to his feet, took the axe out of Brian's hands and walked up to the corpse. The other three looked on with varying degrees of horror as he proceeded to hack at the old woman's neck until it separated from her body. The head rolled sideways and the umbrella clunked to the floor, still embedded in the skull. Roger wiped droplets of blood off his face and looked up at the others. 

"Just making sure," he rasped. 

Freddie and Brian nodded grimly. John groaned and lifted himself up, holding his bleeding nose. 

"Deaky," Freddie was by his side in a moment, whipping out a handkerchief. Meanwhile, Brian and Roger were having a look around the corridor, peering up the stairs and through the doorways beside them. 

"I think if there was more of them they would've come out by now," Brian reasoned. "I don't think they're intelligent enough to hide." 

At least, he certainly hoped so. 

"Yeah, but..." Roger frowned at the head on the carpet suspiciously, as if it might start moving again. "Who did _she_ snack on?" 

That was a very good question. Now that they were taking a closer look, it was plain to see that she had blood all over her. 

They found the answer in the kitchen, in the form of an old man lying on the floor, bleeding out. Half of his face had been ripped off and his shirt was torn open, a gash in his stomach and intestines spilling out. 

Freddie gagged and turned away, leaning onto the counter for support.

"Why... why isn't he..." Roger stammered. 

"I don't know," John said, Freddie's now blood-soaked handkerchief pressed to his nose. He kept a safe distance. His stomach was also revolting. "I think it takes a while." 

"Well," Roger sighed and stepped closer, raising the axe. "better not take any chances then." 

\- - -

DAY 2 

A new day dawned, as grey and damp as the previous, but dawn it did. This almost seemed like a surprise, because how could life just carry on? John watched the dusty beams of morning light fall in between the wooden slats he had hammered across the windows last night. How could the sun keep rising, unaffected by the events which had come to pass? 

He turned and looked at Freddie, who sat by the dying fire, a woollen blanket around his shoulders, absently poking around in it with a fire poker. His hair was a complete mess. And not in an I-just-woke-up, effortlessly sexy kind of way. It was a frizzy, tangled, dirty _mess_. 

And Freddie didn't care. 

Things were bad. 

Brian and Roger were asleep on the sofa, leaning against each other. None of them had slept more than a couple of hours all night. 

At first, a strange sense of purpose had set in after they had made sure the house didn't contain any more nasty surprises. Then they had tried the telephone (dead), the water (working), the radio (just the emergency broadcast, again).

Roger and Brian had dragged the dead bodies out into the yard and Brian had spent a while mopping up blood. John had found tools in the basement and had busied himself by taking a large bookshelf apart with the axe, using the wood to secure the windows. Freddie had wondered if that was really necessary, but John figured he'd rather be safe than sorry. So Freddie had wandered off and searched the house for anything that appeared useful, returning with a rifle and a large brass candle holder which could probably bash somebody's skull in.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" he'd said, eyes weirdly vacant as he carelessly dropped the rifle on the sofa while admiring the candle holder. "I do love antiques."

They had also found enough food to maybe last them a fortnight, if rationed. 

Going to sleep had seemed like insanity, and so they had managed to light the fireplace in the living room and had settled down in front of it. Wrapped in blankets and in morose silence, until John had finally uttered what they were all thinking.

"Everyone's dead, aren't they?"

"You don't know that," Brian had said, stubbornly, although he knew it was more than likely.

He had thought of his mum and dad, and of Chrissie, and had closed his eyes, pulling his legs up onto the sofa.

"They might be safe," Roger had sniffed, thinking of Clare and his mum, wishing he'd gone to visit them the other week for his mum's birthday. "We are."

"...Are we?" John had wondered.

Freddie had sat huddled on the floor with his eyes closed. His knees had been pulled up to his chest and his palms pressed together, fingers against his lips. Genuinely praying for the first time in many, many years. It had just occurred to him that if Mary was dead, there would be no one to feed the cats. And then he had made the mistake of wondering if these creatures ate cats, too.

Restless sleep had overtaken them all, eventually. Tired, grimy and fully clothed as they were, tear-streaked faces and empty stomachs. No one had had the heart to eat.

John had jolted awake so many times he felt like he hadn't slept at all.

"I keep thinking it's a dream... a terrible dream," He'd heard Freddie whisper to Roger in the early morning hours.

"Shh..."

When John peeked over, Roger was holding Freddie's hand in both of his.

Brian stirred, waking Roger in the process, who lifted his head off the guitarist's shoulder and stretched.

"It's morning," he stated through a yawn, looking as confused about it as John felt.

For a long few minutes, everyone sat in silence. Forlorn and lost in their own bleak thoughts.

"Well," Freddie suddenly said and threw the blanket of his shoulder, an air of determination about him. "I shall make us some tea. Would anyone like some tea?"

The other three nodded and muttered their thanks.

"I'll give you a hand," Brian offered, following Freddie into the kitchen.

"I have to piss," Roger announced, dragging himself up off the couch and heading for the stairs.

Left alone in the living room, John looked around what had evidently been a very pleasant, rural old couple's home only a day ago. Pictures of grown children and grandchildren smiled at him from the walls.

And then he heard it. A noise from outside. A growl, like an animal, except John immediately knew it wasn't. He stiffened in his chair, eyes widening. Listening closely. He could hear them. More than one of them. Groaning and growling, feet dragging over loose gravel. He swallowed, head turning in the direction of a window.

He didn't really want to look. He didn't really want to _know_.

But he had to.

John quietly stood up and walked over to the window, squinting through the wooden slats.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brian and Freddie reappear in the doorway, evidently having heard it, too.

"Deaky," Freddie breathed, holding a tea kettle. "How many?"

John stepped back from the window, turning to look at them.

"They're out there!" Roger shouted, jogging down the stairs. "I saw them from the bathroom window-"

He stopped between Freddie and Brian, meeting John's eyes.

"There's... there's a few," John murmured. "Heading our way." 

No sooner had he said it, than they heard a loud banging on the door.  
Freddie dropped the kettle. 

\- - -


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then, here I am, updating this two weeks late at 4am, as you do!
> 
> Also, ARGH, I cannot write short things! I can't do it, I'm sorry. This will be 5 chapters now, most likely. I had to split this chapter in two because it was getting way, wayyy too long!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> (I'm sorry if it's full of typos, I'm half asleep right now.)

\- - - 

DAY 2 (continued) 

More than the pounding of skeletal hands on window panes which suddenly seemed far too vulnerable a barrier between them and the creatures outside, and more than the rattling of the padlock on the door, making them all wonder how long it would hold, it was the bone-chilling sounds emanating from the undead which were truly unbearable. There was nothing even remotely human about those wheezing, gurgling groans. It couldn't have been more than a quarter of an hour since the small horde had surrounded the house, but Freddie was reaching breaking point. He wanted to press his palms to his ears and scream until he had neither voice nor breath left. 

The other three were finding it no less maddening as they all sat huddled together behind the couch, not quite clinging on to each other but wanting to. Freddie was plastered to Roger's side, curled into himself and tense, involuntarily flinching with every thud that rattled the door hard enough to make it seem as though it might burst open. John was on his other side, clutching the brass candle holder and peering around the side of the sofa, at the shadows moving behind the boarded up windows. Hungry growls could be heard coming from one direction, then another. The scraping of nails on glass. The relentless, uncoordinated thumping on the door. 

Brian, meanwhile, had his long legs pulled up close to himself, head in his hands. _Thinking._ About their options. About mortality. About sanity. But mostly, about the fact that the Red Special was still in the van and the van was out there and so were those creatures. He could barely believe that he had left his beloved instrument in the van all night, but fighting the undead, carrying corpses out of the house and mopping up blood for an hour had been somewhat of a distraction. 

"We can't just sit here," Roger finally hissed. "They're not going anywhere!" 

"You don't know that." Freddie whispered back. "They might lose interest... and..." 

"And what? It's not like they've got somewhere else to be!" 

Brian lifted his head up and met the drummer's eyes. 

"Roger's right. We have to do something."

"We have to kill them," Roger said, sharing a look of steely determination with Brian, before he frowned to himself. "I mean, um... You know what I mean."

Brian nodded. 

"Cause if we don't..." Roger continued. 

"They'll kill us," John cut in, turning around to them. "They're hungry. That padlock won't keep them out forever."

To his own surprise, John found that he no longer felt scared. It was as if a switch had been flipped in his mind. If he was going to die, he thought, then he was going to die. But by god, he was not going to sit here and just capitulate, waiting for it to happen. 

"But there's so many of them," Freddie whispered helplessly, looking around at his bandmates. "What- How- How would we even-" 

For some reason, everyone's eyes landed on Brian. Perhaps because he had that constipated expression on his face which usually preceeded a great idea for a new song or a clever improvement to an existing one. 

"Right," he said, eyes lighting up, "We can't just open the door, because they'll come in all at once and then we're dead. So what we need is some way to force them back when we open the door, if we want to stand a chance at all."

Brian stared at the carpet, hard. The other three stared at him, expectantly. A minute passed in silence. 

"Except I'm not sure how to do that," Brian admitted. 

Freddie lowered his head into his hands with a pitiful groan. 

"Wait a minute..." mumbled Roger, squinting at the pictures on the wall of the sweet elderly couple who used to live in this house. "I think I might have an idea."

He searched his pockets and pulled out his lighter, turning it over in his hands, and then peeled Freddie off himself and stood up. The scratching and growling outside the windows closest to them immediately became more frantic, making Brian and Roger jump and Freddie squirm and scoot close to Brian, pressing himself into his side, hands over his ears. John, on the other hand, got to his feet and slowly walked toward the window, still carrying the candle holder. 

"Let's see how many of you there are..." he murmured to himself as he got closer, peering through the cracks and right into a pair of milky, blood-shot eyes. The creature on the other side snarled and banged on the glass, snapping its teeth. It looked like it had been a young women once. 

Roger slowly turned away from John and looked down at Brian and Freddie. "I'll be right back. Just wait." 

With that, he quickly crossed the living room and jogged up the stairs. The padlock rattled dangerously as several of the creatures threw themselves against the door, picking up on the movement behind it. 

"Nine..." John muttered, making the rounds from window to window. "Ten..." 

Brian put an arm around Freddie, drawing him into a half hug. 

"Listen. Freddie, listen to me." 

"What," the older man whispered weakly, leaning against his shoulder, face half-hidden behind messy strands of dark hair.

"Remember last night?" Brian asked, "Remember when you killed that thing with an umbrella? A bloody _umbrella_, Fred?" 

Freddie snorted quietly and nodded. Of course he remembered. How could be possibly forget the gruesome sight of the umbrella poking out of the old woman's eye socket? But that had been luck, pure luck. 

"I'm not sure how..."

"No, stop it," Brian said, clutching Freddie's shoulder tighter, "None of that now. You're the only one of us who's actually taken one of them down, do you realise that? We need you."

Freddie swallowed, glancing up at Brian uncertainly. He had to admit that he hadn't thought of it like that. 

"_I_ need you," Brian said softly, looking into his eyes. "You saved my life last night. I need _that_ Freddie back. Okay?" 

"Okay," Freddie mouthed with a small nod, and took a deep, shuddering breath as he sat up a little straighter. Brian was absolutely right. They needed him. They all needed each other if they were going to survive this. His hand found Brian's, resting on his shoulder, and Freddie clasped it tightly, threading their fingers together. He could feel Brian's head jerk in his direction, but he didnt pull his hand away or say anything. Instead, he gave Freddie's hand a gentle squeeze in return. 

Roger came back not a moment later, looking triumphant and carrying a large aerosol can. 

"How many, Deaks?" he asked, no longer whispering and raised an eyebrow at John, who had wandered back into the living room.

"About a dozen or so, I reckon." 

"Okay." 

"Probably more." 

"Is that hairspray?" Freddie asked, frowning. 

Brian gasped and let go of him, jumping to his feet. "Roger, you're a genius!" 

Roger grinned smugly, lifting the can up with his finger at the ready. Brian and John held their breath in anticipation. Freddie didn't catch on, not until Roger pulled out his lighter and sparked it at the same time as he pressed the button. An impressive flame burst forth from the spray can, singeing the tassels on the lampshade which hung from the ceiling. 

"Whoops," said Roger, extinguishing his makeshift flamethrower and turning to the others. "What do you think? Is that gonna do the trick?" 

John squinted at the smoldering lamp tassels. Brian hummed thoughtfully. They all exchanged a few uncertain glances. It was definitely their best bet, at this point. 

Freddie slowly rose to his feet, warily glancing at the scratching, snarling shadows outside the windows.

"Well then," he said. "We're going to need weapons." 

They gathered in front of the door some five minutes later, staring their inevitable doom in the face. Freddie was holding the fire poker, John the candle holder and Brian the axe, while Roger had his makeshift flamethrower at the ready. He swallowed, renewing his grip on the spray can and gripping the lighter tightly. 

"So, um. What's the plan?" 

"I'll open the door," said Brian, transferring the axe to one hand, the other half outstretched toward the padlock. "You blast them, and- and we-" 

"We try to kill anything that comes inside," Freddie concluded, his voice uneven but his grip on the fire poker steely. 

John nodded. 'That's it,' he thought, 'We're gonna die.' 

He didn't say it, of course, because he was sure they were all thinking it anyway. His palms were clammy and he couldn't quite feel his legs. Perhaps he was afraid, after all. He honestly couldn't tell. None of this felt real anymore. Maybe Roger _had_ crashed the van, back there in the middle of the woods, and John was already dead? Maybe this was hell.

The door shook with the renewed effort of the creatures, throwing themselves against it. 

"Ready...?" Brian asked. 

"Go on, just do it!" Roger blurted out. He was afraid that if he stood here any longer, contemplating being ripped to pieces by the undead horde, he might tell the others that he loved them all dearly, or burst into tears, or both. 

Brian's hand hovered by the padlock for just a moment. Freddie resisted the irrationally strong urge to squeeze his eyes shut. 

And then, Brian unlocked the door and jumped back as it opened. Roger immediately lit the hairspray on fire, managing to hit the first zombie which threw itself inside straight in the face with a jet of flames. It gave an inhumane screech and stumbled back, tumbling against another two behind it. Freddie shrieked when something grabbed on to his leg and realised one of them - apparently missing its lower body - had crawled inside, pulling itself toward his calf, teeth bared. He tried to kick at it with his other foot and brought his platform boot down hard, resulting in a sickening crunch and the creatures broken, dislocated jaw dangling loose from its face. The grip on his ankle weakened a little, just enough for him to shake himself free and stumble backward, retreating toward the stairs, eyes wide as he beheld what was happening. 

It was mayhem. The fire was holding the zombies back, but only just. As Freddie looked on, John swung his candle holder right into the face of a creature which had sunk its undead fingers into Roger's arm. The force of the blow knocked the creatures head back at an unnatural angle, its forehead caved in. It flailed and fell backward, only for another to come through the door and throw itself at John. Freddie leaped forward and watched his fire poker sink into the zombie's pale eye, stopping it in its tracks. When he pulled it out the eyeball came loose with it, impaled on the end of the metal rod. The creature swayed and John knocked it sideways with a solid blow, but two more almost immediately took its place. Meanwhile, on the other side, Brian had managed to take out the first zombie which had thrown itself at him but as he swung at the next, the axe hit the doorframe and stuck. Frantically pulling at the handle, Brian kicked the undead monstrosity before him in the stomach instead and it stumbled backward into another, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Beyond them, he could see still more, some dragging themselves and some moving alarmingly fast, heading toward the door. That's more than a dozen, he thought. Shit. _Shit_. 

"Fuck!" Roger shouted over the noise as he became aware of Brian's struggle with the axe, and turned just in time to blast a zombie that had grabbed on to Freddie in the eye. However, the can of hairspray was starting to feel worryingly empty. 

"Stairs! Up the stairs!" John shouted from behind him, and luckily, just at that moment, Brian dislodged the axe and cleaved a creature which was about to throw itself at Roger in the head. 

They retreated together, just barely managing to escape the snapping teeth of the zombies which were still after them, pushing in through the door and falling over the immobile and twitching corpses on the ground. John's idea proved to be the best they could have had, because while the zombies were unrelenting, their hands closing painfully tightly around anything they could reach, they had neither the coordination nor the balance of the living. Having retreated halfway up the stairs, it didn't take more than a swift, well-aimed kick to send them flying, taking down others behind them. Of course, the problem was that they inevitably got back up. 

Roger and John found themselves at the front, fighting them off with fire and blunt force, Freddie behind John's shoulder, stabbing at any head that came close enough within fire poker range. Brian was stuck, lost for what to do. Swinging the axe with the others in the way was too much of a risk. His eyes darted from the creatures, threatening to overwhelm his three friends any moment, to the open door and the van beyond. Outside, everything seemed clear. At least ten creatures were trying to get at them from the bottom of the stairs, but at the very least no more were coming in. 

"Oh no-" Roger gasped, and Brian's eyes snapped back to him. The hairspray had run out. Seizing their chance, skeletal hands immediately flew forward and tore at Roger's arms and clothes, yanking him down into their midst, jaws opening wide. 

Roger screamed. 

Freddie turned to see what had happened, and his blood ran cold. 

"ROGER!" 

Adrenaline was a funny thing. Before anyone else moved, Freddie had lunged forward and driven the fire poker straight up into one of the creatures gaping mouths over Roger's shoulder. It wheezed and shuddered, the metal sticking out through the back of its head. Roger stared at it, wide-eyed. The fire poker had missed his face by a hair. But just then, the other undead creature sank its teeth into his shoulder with such vicious intent that it hurt even through the layers of clothes he was wearing. 'Oh god, no, oh god, _please no_-'

Roger wasn't sure if he thought or yelled the words, there was so much yelling. Freddie's voice, Brian's, everything was a blur. A split second later, the back of the axe came down on the skull of the zombie whose teeth had clamped down on his shoulder. The creature grunted and opened its jaws, disoriented. Freddie, who had just managed to pull the fire poker out of the first zombie's skull, saw his chance and stabbed at the other creature, tearing a hole into the skin of its cheek. Brian yanked Roger's arm free and they both fell over, on top of each other. Meanwhile John was furiously kicking and swinging at the other zombies, trying to keep them at bay. His platform boots were proving fairly helpful, but not enough as bony hands grabbed at his bell bottom trousers. 

"SOME HELP!?" he yelled frantically. 

Brian reached for the axe and shoved it into Roger's hands, pushing him off himself. 

"Van keys??" 

"What?!" Roger scrambled to his feet, quickly turning around and taking a swing at one of the creatures, just barely preventing it from pulling John down the stairs. 

"Keys, KEYS!!" Brian shouted. "NOW!" 

It wasn't the best time to ask questions, so Roger simply reached into his pocket and pulled the keys out, throwing them back over his shoulder. They very nearly slipped through Brian's fingers, but as soon as he had closed his fist around them, Brian grabbed onto the bannister and leaped over. 

Pain shot through his ankle as he landed awkwardly but he managed to scramble to his feet and ran for the door as fast as his legs would carry him. 

A zombie who had just tumbled down to the bottom of the stairs immediately went in pursuit of him. If John, Roger and Freddie hadn't been so busy trying to stay alive, they might have wondered if their guitarist was, in fact, abandoning them or worried if he would make it to the van alive. But as it was, they were now retreating up the stairs even further, both out of strength and out of options, the remaining half a dozen zombies closing in on them at an alarming rate. It was becoming painfully obvious that they were no match for the superhuman endurance and relentlessness of the creatures which were after their lives. 

And then, just when all hope was beginning to seem lost, rays of artificial light poured in through the front door. The headlights of the van, Roger realised. The horn was blaring loudly, drawing the zombies' attention away from them and toward it, their dead eyes searching for the source of the disruptive noise. Some of them began to make their way down the stairs toward the door. 

John, Freddie and Roger exchanged wide-eyed looks, finally given a few seconds to breathe, and then threw themselves at the distracted creatures as one, cleaving, bashing at and skewering skulls with the last reserve of strength they could muster. The ear-splitting, loud noise seemed to be disorienting the zombies and Roger pushed one down the stairs and jumped over it, running after the few which had staggered outside. He made short work of one just outside the door with two well-aimed swings of the axe, taking off half of its head. Another two were plastered to the window of the van, snarling and clawing at the glass to get at Brian. 

"OI!!" Roger roared at them, lifting his axe up high. "COME ON, YOU FUCKERS!" 

One of them twisted its head in his direction, milky eyes honing in on him. With a growl, it pushed itself off from the van and started toward him. His arms shook from the strain, but Roger gave it his all one last time and the gruesome creature met its end with the axe hitting it right in the throat as it ran toward him. Aided by the momentum, the blade cut almost all the way through its neck. Its head dropped back and hung by a bit of sinew and skin as it staggered a few steps further and then collapsed even as John ran past Roger.

Freddie stumbled out through the door and watched John bash in the skull of the last zombie standing, splattering the window of their van with blood. 

It fell at his feet, unmoving. They looked around, jerking this way and that at first, expecting more creatures to come out of nowhere. But slowly, it became apparent that all they were surrounded by was death, blood and the eerily quiet countryside. A few of the bodies were still twitching, but none of them enough to move from where they lay. 

"Fucking hell," Roger rasped, as Brian cracked the door of the van open. "Fucking hell!" 

With that, he dropped the axe and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Until the others gathered around him and they all fell into each other's arms, sobbing and laughing together through tears of joy. 

\- - - 

DAY 3

Roger awoke at what he assumed was sunrise. They had gone to bed at dusk. None of them had had the energy to keep their eyes open any longer, after most of the day had been spent making sure not one of the creatures was left moving and then piling up corpses behind the shed outside the house. (So they couldn't be seen from the windows, at Freddie's request.) Followed by the harrowing task of scrubbing the hallway clean while the sickening smell of burnt flesh hung thick in the air. 

The scene had been gruesome. The floor, the stairs and even the walls had been splattered with remains of human. Blood and clumps of grey matter. Congealed strands of hair and even the odd tooth. Freddie had been the first to excuse himself to the bathroom, looking positively green in the face after he had accidentally stepped on and squished an eyeball. Brian hadn't fared much better, and Roger had been pretty sure the only thing keeping him from throwing up was the fact that his stomach was so painfully empty. John had been pale as a sheet but hadn't said a word and had stayed behind, stubbornly scrubbing at remaining stains while the others took turns showering and washing the filth off themselves. Brian had cooked some rice and vegetables, trying to use up whatever would spoil first so as not to waste anything. 

However, they had barely been able to bring themselves to eat. 

Roger was lying back to back with Brian and, he discovered, spooning Freddie who in turn had his arm and leg draped over John. He honestly couldn't remember who had suggested to share the double bed. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember anyone suggesting it at all. It had just sort of... happened. 

They had been looking through the wardrobe for any clothes that might fit them, other than the few spare clothes they had brought in from the van, and Freddie had crawled into bed complaining that he was _so cold_. Brian had joined him, hugging him to his chest, which might have seemed odd under different circumstances. However, given everything they had gone through, it had seemed only natural, somehow. No one had raised an eyebrow when Roger had climbed under the covers with them, and then, John had simply switched off the lights and come to bed. 

Roger had to admit that while there wasn't much space to roll over or stretch out, it wasn't the worst arrangement. It kept them warm. And he doubted that any of them liked the thought of being alone very much at the moment. 

Carefully lifting his arm off Freddie, Roger shifted onto his back and winced. He genuinely felt as though he had been run over by a lorry. His entire body ached terribly. None of them had escaped without scrapes and bruises. He absently reached up to touch the dark bruise in the shape of a bite mark on his shoulder. He was so lucky that the zombie hadn't had enough time to rip through his clothes. 

Freddie suddenly gasped and jerked awake, swinging his arm out and slapping Roger in the face. John sat up straight and Brian rolled over, and promptly fell out of bed. 

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, I'm failing at maintaining the tone of this the way I wanted it to be. Because I have a serious case of Drama Writer and just can't keep things brief and light. Oh well, it is what it is. Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back with this little side-project of mine! It's getting darker and madder, haha.
> 
> Enjoy!

DAY 5 

A strange, new reality had set in. None of them could say quite how they had passed two more days in this strange surreal state, somewhere between mind-numbing boredom and moments of paralysing fear and dark despair.

Time ticked by in mysterious ways. It dragged and it slipped away. They woke up, they fed themselves, they flinched at every unexpected sound from outside and fell into a restless sleep at night. The bed was cramped, Brian tossed and turned, Roger snored and Freddie talked in his sleep, but it was still better than sleeping alone, John thought. 

For all his talking at night, Freddie had grown very quiet and still during the days. A mere shadow of his usual animated self.  
He sat curled up on the sofa in the living room or on a chair in the kitchen, wherever one of the others could be found nearby, staring into space and wrapped in a woollen blanket. Yet, paradoxically, almost always barefoot. If Brian or Roger sat down besides him, he slowly and wordlessly pressed himself into their side until an arm was placed around him, and sometimes he'd lay his head on their shoulder and close his eyes. The only time Freddie was up and about, was to brew cups of tea, for himself and anyone in the vicinity, half of which remained untouched. And so he'd pour them out and wash them up and make more tea. 

At this rate they were going to run out of tea before they ran out of food, thought Brian, who in turn restlessly wandered the house, inspecting all its contents over and over again as though some clue as to how they might escape this death trap might be hidden somewhere. Thinking, and scratching at the stubble on his chin, and thinking some more. (Unlike the other three, Brian had foregone shaving since their arrival. He wasn't sure why the others bothered and assumed it was perhaps to maintain some semblance of normalcy. Everyone fell into routines that made them feel a little bit more like themselves. He'd watched Freddie comb his damp hair for a good half an hour the other morning.) The Red Special was in its case, untouched, in the corner of the living room beside John's bass. He couldn't bring himself to pick it up and he didn't want to dwell on why. It was easier to busy himself with food in the kitchen, leaf through books which didn't hold his interest or talk to Roger. 

Only John and Roger had left the house in the last two days. To inspect the shed outside - no chainsaws, Roger had really hoped for a chainsaw, but it was mostly just fertiliser and gardening tools - and to chop more firewood. All while chatting very practically about the quickest and easiest ways to separate a head from a body. 

"Just so we're clear," Roger had said as they had left the shed, his fingers ghosting over his bruised shoulder. "If I get bitten... I mean properly... then you have to kill me. Right away, alright, Deaks? I never wanna turn into one of those things." 

John had looked at him out of the corner of his eye. 

"You have to do it," Roger had told him, almost casually. "Because Bri and Fred..." He had trailed off, frowning to himself.

John knew what he had been trying to say. 

"I will," he had promised. 

The next day it had almost come to that. 

Roger made his way out to the yard alone, the axe over his shoulder. It was a bitterly cold day. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe and the frost bit at his cheeks and fingers. The only truly warm place in the house was the living room when the fireplace was lit, and Freddie had sat shivering on the sofa all morning despite his blanket, his eyes so exhausted and haunted he looked like an apparition. Roger's plan was to have enough firewood to keep the fireplace going all day and into the night. Chopping wood didn't seem like a chore. It was good to have something to do. Physical labour kept his mind off the fact that he had run out of fags two days ago, and all the other things he didn't want to think about. Such as the fact that the electricity had stopped working that morning. 

He almost didn't hear them at all. Two creatures, staggering right out of the woods and toward him. They had come dangerously close by the time he registered their wheezing groans over the sound of the howling wind. And then, something inside him simply took over. He spun around, his grip on the axe firm and unwavering as he rammed it into the neck of the zombie closest to him. Without a moments hesitation, he pulled the axe free and split the second creature's skull in two before finishing off the first and all but hacking the rotting body to pieces. And all Roger could think, as he dragged the bodies to the mound of death behind the shed, was how easy that had been. And that his heart was hammering in his chest and his blood was rushing hot and wild through his veins, almost as if... a part of him had... enjoyed it. 

"Oh my god," Freddie breathed when Roger stepped into the living room and dropped an armful of firewood by the wall. It was the first thing Freddie had said all morning. 

"What," Roger frowned, momentarily confused. 

Freddie was already on his feet beside him, clutching the hem of his blanket, which hung around his shoulders, with one hand and raising the other to Roger's cheek. Wiping off the droplets of blood splattered there. Roger looked down at himself and noticed that his clothes were blood-stained, too. 

"I killed two of 'em," he muttered, looking back up at Freddie's concerned eyes. "Almost didn't see them coming." 

"Are you alright?" 

"Yeah." 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Freddie became aware of his hand, fingertips still resting against Roger's cheek, and quickly pulled it away. But as he did, Roger's hand shot out and caught his wrist so suddenly it startled him a little. They held each other's gaze for a long moment, before Roger's eyes slowly travelled down to Freddie's parted lips, and back up. The older man raised an eyebrow and then suddenly winced. 

"Ow-" 

"Sorry," Roger realised he was crushing his wrist and released it immediately, stepping away and turning to go back outside to fetch the axe which he had left there. Ignoring the way his heart was now beating in his throat. What the fuck had come over him just then? 

"Roger-" 

Freddie's voice brought him to a halt in the living room doorway and he placed a hand on the doorframe, glancing back over his shoulder. 

Freddie wasn't sure what he had wanted to say.

"Be careful, Blondie," he murmured, lightly rubbing his wrist, and pulled his lip over his teeth.

"'Course," Roger nodded curtly, and disappeared through the door. 

At sundown, the fire in fireplace was burning bright, illuminating the otherwise dark room and casting dancing shadows on the walls. 

The first to finish the lentil soup he had cooked, Brian put his plate aside and stood up from the sofa. His legs took him to his guitar case of their own accord. 

The other three watched him with a mixture of interest and surprise when he returned to the sofa with the Red Special in hand.

Sitting closest to the fire, Freddie lowered his plate when Brian began to play. He wasn't even playing anything in particular, just improvising a bit. But it hit them all like a tidal wave. They hadn't so much as heard music since the day they had come here. The radio was all static now, or had been, before the electricity had cut out. And the old record player in the corner was broken. All of a sudden, it was as if something came to life within them, all of them. 

John smiled. So did Roger. 

And when Brian looked up with a grin and played the intro to _Keep Yourself Alive_, Freddie laughed and then, he began to sing. John jumped up from the floor and fetched his bass.

Roger started drumming his hands on the coffee table and joined in on the chorus with Brian and Freddie. Even though the poignancy of the song title was lost on no one, the mood quickly turned to a euphoric sort of enjoyment of the music and each other's company. Roger even gave the drum solo his best shot on the coffee table, to everyone's amusement. Freddie whooped and threw the blanket off his shoulders, rising to his feet. When Brian segued into _The Night Comes Down_, Freddie wound his way between his band mates and the furniture as he sang. He hung off of Roger's neck with one arm, hugged Brian from behind and then was up from the sofa again, leaning into John, all grand gestures and eyes twinkling. Until all of a sudden, a change came over him. Like a dark cloud pulling in front of the sun. 

"_Now all the world is grey to me..._" Freddie trailed off as he lowered himself onto the armrest of the sofa, lowered his head, and really rather dramatically burst into tears. 

The others stopped, exchanging uncomfortable, worried looks and watching him helplessly for a few moments, before Brian put down his guitar and scooted closer, laying a hand on his back. 

"Fred..."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Not looking up, Freddie waved his hand dismissively and rubbed at his face with the other. "I'm sorry, darlings. It's only th-that," His voice broke and he drew a shuddering breath. 

"It's all over now. We'll never be famous," he sobbed in a small voice, barely making it to the end of the sentence. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" 

John's sharp words momentarily silenced their weeping lead singer, stunning him into looking up, bewildered to see the young bassist glaring at him with disdain. 

"Are you fucking serious right now?" John snorted, shaking his head. "There's a fucking pile of corpses behind the house. Our families, fuck, everyone we ever knew! They're most likely all dead, too. It's the bloody end of the world, Freddie! In case you hadn't noticed! And all you care about is _being famous_? How self-absorbed- how fucking _shallow_ can you be?!"

Freddie stared at him with wide, teary eyes, utterly taken aback. 

"Oi! Put a sock in it, will you!" Roger rose to his feet, narrowing his eyes at John. 

"Yeah, that's a little uncalled for, don't you think?" Brian agreed, his hand still on Freddie's back.

John didn't think so. Right now, he didn't think so at all. He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head, hands on his hips. 

"Honestly? I've no idea why you put up with him sometimes!" 

Having heard quite enough, Freddie bolted. Not without angrily shouldering past John and giving his bass a shove as he left the room and jogged up the stairs. 

"Way to be an arsehole!" Roger snapped, and ran after Freddie, throwing John a dirty look on the way out.

Brian also stood up, looking at the doorway, unsure whether it would do any good if he followed them. 

"Go!" John scoffed, swinging his hand out in the direction of the doorway. "Fred's _upset_. Quick, you better fucking run." 

Brian turned to look at him with consternation on his face. "What the hell is your problem?" 

"Don't know," John shrugged, lips pressed together in a tight line. He took off his bass guitar. "You're so fucking clever, why don't you figure it out?" 

And with that he marched off to the kitchen. Brian stared after him and contemplated going upstairs for a moment, but then lowered himself back down on the sofa instead and pulled the guitar back into his lap. Thinking about Freddie's and John's words, and time, and the futility of trying to stay alive, while his fingers moved over the strings as he sank into his own world. 

\- - - 

Standing in the dark, in the upstairs corridor, Roger raised a hand and lightly rapt on the door with his knuckles. 

There was no reply. 

And so, after a moment, he let himself in and closed the door behind him. 

With the curtains drawn, the pale moonlight only a faint shimmer behind them, the bedroom was veiled in darkness. Roger's hand flew to the light switch out of habit, before he remembered that they no longer had the luxury of electricity. He could hear Freddie more than he could see him. His irregular breathing and quiet sniffs from where he sat on the bed. 

Moving slowly so as not to knock into the corner of the bed, Roger made his way over and crawled up onto it. 

"He's right, you know," Freddie murmured in a hoarse voice, from somewhere right beside him, although Roger could barely make him out in the dark. 

Roger snorted. "He was being a dick."

"No, but he's right," Freddie's voice grew calmer, and more dejected, as he spoke. "It's the only thing I've ever wanted. _Truly_ wanted. Being on stage... It's my life, Roger, my entire life's... purpose, I suppose... That sounds awfully grand, but... yes." He thought about his own words for a moment. "It is. Or it was, anyway. And how..." He made a sound somewhere between a sob and a chuckle. "How pathetic is that? What good is it all, really? It's true, it's just... just selfish." 

"But it's not." Roger shook his head, a frown on his face which Freddie couldn't see. 

"Oh please. What good am I doing, poncing around on stage?" 

"You make people happy," Roger heard himself say, and cringed, because fucking hell, if that wasn't one of the soppiest things he'd ever said to someone. "Music, I mean. It makes people feel something, doesn't it, and that's... that's not nothing." 

Freddie blinked and intently stared into the darkness where he could just about make out Roger's face. Then he slowly nodded. 

"I suppose so," he agreed, "It's something." 

"It's something," Roger repeated, thinking about being on stage. Thinking about Freddie, strutting his stuff in front of the audience, captivating them. Boundless energy and so much life. It was quite something. He smiled. 

"Oh, but we would have been magnificent," Freddie uttered in a near whisper. "Don't you think, dear?" 

"We would've been fucking amazing," Roger's smile turned into a grin. "Bigger than the Beatles." 

Freddie laughed. 

"Look, we might still be," Roger said, eyes gleaming in the dark. "Once all this blows over. Think about it, if everyone's dead there'll be way less competition." 

This time, Freddie burst out laughing so hard he snorted, which only made him laugh more. He covered his mouth with one hand out of habit, even though the darkness concealed his overbite. 

"Playing to an audience of a dozen or so," he laughed. "Everyone that's left..." 

"Not much different from the last couple pubs we played up north then! I thought some of them only looked half alive, to be honest," Roger snickered. 

It took them both a while to stop laughing. 

"Thank you, darling," Freddie sighed, once he had calmed down, and reached out blindly. His hand landed on Roger's thigh. Which wasn't what he had aimed for. Then again, he wasn't sure what he had aimed for. He'd just wanted to touch Roger.

And here he was, still awkwardly touching his thigh. Freddie pulled his hand away. 

"You're welcome," Roger said, belatedly. And added, after a moment of silence: "Look... I know it's... I know it looks like it's the end of the world, out there, and maybe it is. Maybe Deaky's right. Fuck knows. But, so, then... What's the point in moping around? You know? Fuck it. Fuck everything. I don't want to spend the last days of my life curled up in a corner feeling sorry for myself, I mean..." Saying all that out loud felt strange. Were these really the last days of their lives? Fuck. "I don't know what I mean. I just think there's better things to do than cry about it." 

"Like what?" Freddie whispered, unexpectedly close to him. Roger looked up and found himself staring into Freddie's eyes in the dark. Their faces so close that he was keenly aware of Freddie's breathing. The sound of his breath, flowing through his parted lips. Still alive. So alive. Was he breathing a little too fast? Only as fast as Roger's heart was beating, against his ribcage. 

"Anything," Roger whispered back, "If it's really the end... then I guess nothing really matters. Does it?" 

He could hear Freddie swallow. There was a beat, a split second, and then it was Freddie's lips he felt against his own. Sudden and none too gentle. Freddie pulled away as quickly as he had leant in. 

"Oh god, I'm so-" 

Roger's fingers closed around a fistful of Freddie's shirt and pulled him back in, crashing their lips back together. Freddie made a startled sound and then melted into him. Roger felt his whole body come alive with a rush of excitement and dizzying hunger.

Yes.

He took hold of Freddie's jaw even as their lips parted, tongues sliding into each other's mouths, demanding and aggressive. Freddie moaned into the kiss, his hands grasping at him, pulling him down on top of himself as he lay back on the bed. 

_Yes_. 

It should have felt awkward, this, Roger was sure. After all, it wasn't every day that he stuck his tongue down his best friend's throat. Then again, it wasn't every day that the world was ending. Normal rules no longer applied. Fuck everything, right? Well, who knew? It turned out that right now he really wanted to fuck Freddie. 

Freddie, who gave another moan when Roger's teeth scraped his neck and when the younger man sucked a patch of tender skin into his mouth. 

"Shhh," Roger hissed, coming up to look him in the eye. 

"Don't stop," Freddie breathed, hips rocking up against Roger's, grinding their cocks together through the confines of their clothes. "Please-" 

"Keep quiet, will you? They'll fucking hear us," Roger's hand had snaked its way underneath his shirt. And even though his fingers were cold, the touch felt as if it was setting his skin on fire. 

Freddie nodded curtly and bit down on his lips even as his own fingers located and fumbled with the button and zip of Roger's jeans. 

He couldn't help but moan, regardless, when Roger bit his earlobe and thrust his cock into his hand. 

\- - - 

"Deaky!" Brian shouted from the living room, startling John, who had been sitting in the kitchen with his head in his hands. Feeling awful, angry, hopeless and afraid all at once. The numbness he had felt over the first few terrifying days had lifted without warning, and beneath it was an abyss of emotions he couldn't even begin to tackle. He was currently considering if it wouldn't be easier to just take that goddamn shotgun and try it out - none of them had dared to, so far - using his head as a target. There was a strange sense of relief about the idea. 

"John! Will you get in here, please!" Brian called again and John took a deep breath and dragged himself back into the living room. He hadn't noticed when Brian had stopped playing guitar, but now he was on the floor by the coffee table, looking absolutely frantic with a deranged sort of excitement as he leaned over what appeared to be a map. He looked up at him, his voice urgent. 

"Go get Roger and Fred. Now! I've had an idea." 

"But-" John began, very much doubting that Freddie would so much as let him into the room right now. 

Brian didn't have time for this. "Oh, fucking hell, go tell him you're sorry and drag them down here, will you!" He waved his hand at John impatiently. "This is important. Come on!" 

A tiny glimmer of hope stirred in John's chest. Could Brian really have thought of something that might just get them out of here? 

"Yeah, okay," he mumbled, and made his way upstairs. 

In all honesty, John became aware of what was going on almost immediately when he reached the top of the stairs. Only at first he didn't quite believe his ears. They weren't being terribly quiet. Well, Freddie wasn't, in any case. 

By the time he had walked up to the bedroom door, there wasn't a doubt left in his mind as to what he would find if he opened it. So he wisely didn't. But out of sheer, morbid curiosity, he carefully pressed his ear to the door and listened to the moaning, Roger's grunts, Freddie's breathless whimpers. 

"Ah! Yes... _fuck_-" 

"Shit, Freddie-" 

"Oh _god_\- Ah-hmngh-" 

"Shhh!" 

John froze for a moment, wondering if they had somehow heard him at the door. He was sure he hadn't made a sound. But the next moment the moaning continued, albeit muffled. It sounded very much as though Roger might have clapped a hand over Freddie's mouth and for some reason John almost burst into mildly delirious laughter at the thought.

Well then. He pulled away from the door and slowly retreated, quietly making his way back downstairs. 

When he returned to the living room Brian was still poring over the map he had found. The curly-haired guitarist looked up, a questioning look on his face.

"Well? Are they coming?" 

"I think so," said John, and couldn't help but snort with laughter this time, although he quickly cleared his throat, his expression turning unreadable as he leaned against the door frame. 

Brian blinked, looking at him as though he had gone quite mad. John thought that he probably wasn't wrong in that assessment. 

"...What do you mean? Did you tell them to come down or not?" 

"No. They were busy."

Brian frowned and cocked his head. "Busy doing what?" 

"Fucking." John said simply. 

Brian's eyebrows rose up. He opened his mouth and closed it again, staring into space for a long moment. 

"Right," he finally said. "Right, okay."

John suddenly looked glum. 

"I'm gonna die a virgin," he lamented, gazing at the ugly aquarelle landscape above the fireplace. 

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," said Brian, awkwardly sympathetic. "Well, there is a chance we might... not die?" 

John nodded, sat down against the wall by the door, and silently burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is losing their marbles slowly. Haha. Let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually SO THRILLED to finally continue this! I was stuck on it for ages because I decided to challenge myself with this and write it in an omniscient narrator voice, which failed horribly, hahaha. But that's OK.  
Also, I wanted the tone for this to be dark comedy meets psychological horror. I don't know if I succeeded. 
> 
> **WARNING**  
A part of this chapter can be read as dubious consent.  
Also, this chapter is really fucked up. No one is okay. 
> 
> Soundtrack - I Can't Decide by the Scissor Sisters
> 
> _Please don't hang your head and cry  
I wonder why  
My heart feels dead inside  
Cold and hard and petrified  
Lock the doors and close the blinds  
We're going for a ride_
> 
> Thanks to QuirkySubject, Tikini and Plainxte for their encouragement and for listening to me whine, and thanks to BisexualRoger for beta reading! ❤️

DAY 6

"A raft," said Roger, raising an eyebrow. "You got experience building rafts, or...?" 

"It's a raft, not a _boat_." John was trying hard not to stare at Roger's hand, firmly planted on Freddie's hip, his arm wrapped around their lead singer in a way that was nothing short of possessive. 

So, they weren't going to bother with discretion then. Good to know. 

"It's not rocket science," John added. "And even if it was..." His eyes wandered to Brian, who hadn't slept half the night and looked like it. His eyes, however, were sharp and focused on the map in front of him.

"Fair enough," Roger conceded with a sigh, rubbing his forehead tiredly. The dim orange glow of the fire and the hazy morning light falling through the cracks between the boards covering the windows made him want to crawl back into bed, which Brian had unceremoniously dragged them out of at the crack of dawn. And the scent of tea coming from Freddie's mug beside him was relaxing and soothing. Roger hadn't felt this mellow and relaxed since… well, not since all this had started.  
Neither had Freddie, for that matter, although the singer's current mental state could best be described as blissfully detached from reality. This was just like hanging out on a lazy weekend morning, he thought, and sipped his tea, not looking at the boarded up windows nor the harrowed expression on Brian's face. 

Meanwhile, Roger's mind refused to focus on rafts. While Brian was elaborating on the finer points of raft building, he idly started wondering when he and Freddie might continue what they had started last night. Pliant and soft against his side, Freddie gave a little sigh as Roger’s fingers absently trailed from the singer’s hip up to his waist, digging into soft skin through his shirt.

John noticed. He had cycled through a whole lot of emotions since last night, and for some reason he had now arrived back at anger. The way Roger and Freddie were just casually sitting there, hands all over each other like a pair of teenagers at the cinema, as if this wasn't _the fucking end of the world_, really rubbed him the wrong way. 

The bassist's glare hadn't escaped Roger, of course. He was fully aware that they had probably been overheard last night. After all, neither Brian nor John had come to bed. Fuck, of course they’d been overheard. The house was small and the walls were thin, and shutting Freddie up was an impossible feat. 

But did it even matter anymore? For all they knew they were the last four people left alive. For how long, no one could tell. A heady sort of indifference towards everything outside of himself had taken Roger over. So what if John and Brian knew? What exactly were they going to do about it? Fuck all, that's what. 

He met John's eyes and stared him down in turn, daring him to say a single thing about it. 

"... so what I'm thinking is," Brian had noticed that no one appeared to be listening to him any longer and leaned back, crossing his arms. "I'm sorry, am I boring you? Or does someone here have a better plan? Because if so, then please, feel free to share it. I’m all ears!" 

John, Roger and Freddie had the decency to look a little chastised as they turned to look at him again.

"All we need is enough wood, there's rope in the shed," John pointed out, jumping back into the conversation. However, he could still see Freddie out of the corner of his, and watched him lower his head onto Roger's shoulder. _Ugh_. If they got any closer, John was going to have to leave the room.

Wilfully ignoring the tension between his friends, Brian pored over the map, chewing his lips thoughtfully. 

"John's right," he murmured, "building a raft might take some time but it isn't difficult. The difficult part will be getting it from here," he pointed to their location, which he had circled on the map, and slowly drew a line with his finger, "to the river. But it shouldn't take us more than... four or five hours. It's doable."

John nodded. 

"Okay," Roger sighed again, trying to wrap his head around the plan. Freddie shifted against his thigh and Roger desperately tried to stop picturing his sensuous, pink lips stretched around his- 

"Uhh, so we build a raft, we make it to the river and we... hope we wash up on some abandoned island?" 

"Not just any island," Brian looked up at him and paused briefly, eyeing Freddie, finally acknowledging how _intimate_ his bandmates were getting on the sofa, determined as he was to ignore all of _that_. "Osea Island," Brian said slowly, "I've been reading up about it. Well, I mean, it's mentioned in here," he waved his hand toward a book, discarded beside the coffee table. John craned his neck to have a look at it. 'The River Blackwater - A History', it read.

"And we'd be better off there, because?" said Roger, a tired frown on his face. 

"We'd be better off anywhere, I'm pretty sure," retorted John sharply. Picking up on his hostile tone, Freddie lifted his head off of Roger's shoulder, giving him a long, measured look. It was the first time he had really looked at John since they had all reconvened in the living room. 

"Two reasons.” Brian explained, trying not to look at Freddie’s fingers drawing lazy circles around Roger’s knee. “Firstly, Osea island is connected to the mainland by a tidal causeway. I think it’s very clear that the… the zombies are not particularly intelligent, and I can’t see them figuring out the tides. So we wouldn’t have to worry about any of them so much as finding their way onto the island half of the time.”

“What if they can swim?” Roger asked. Everyone turned to look at him with looks which varied from annoyance to mild horror. 

“What?” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s something we should probably think about!”

Brian shook his head. “I don’t think they would be able to. Not from what we’ve seen of them.”

John nodded. Roger frowned. Freddie sighed and extracted himself from Roger’s embrace.

“Darling,” he said softly, glancing up at Brian. “I think you’re tremendously clever and this is a very good idea. Not to mention our _only_ idea. So I, for one, am in favour.”

With that he picked up the woollen blanket he had left behind in the living room last night and slowly made his way to the kitchen to make more tea, dragging it behind himself like a toddler padding out of his bedroom in the morning. 

“What’s the other reason?” John asked, moving to perch on the armrest of the sofa, at a distance from where Roger was sitting.

“I’m sorry, what?” Brian asked tiredly. 

“Why it’s a good idea,” John clarified, “the island.”

“Oh, right. Well, from what I understand it was used as a base during the war so there are buildings, there’s… secure shelter, probably. Perhaps even supplies and farmland. Look-” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I’m not saying this is the best idea in the world, but it’s all I’ve got and it _has_ to be better than sitting here and just… just waiting to die. Don’t you think?”

Roger and John nodded and met each other’s eyes briefly, the animosity falling away as they came together on this rather vital question of survival.

“Yeah, it’s good, Bri,” said Roger, and flashed the guitarist a small smile. “Good thing we’ve got you.”

Brian smiled back, but it barely reached his eyes. So much could go wrong if they tried to do this. 

Then again, what choice did they have?

“We’ll start on that raft after breakfast,” agreed John.

\- - - 

DAY 6 (continued)

"Run! RUN!" John yelled over his shoulder, quickly turning back around to swing the axe into the chest of the zombie which was almost upon him. As soon as he pulled it back out of the moving, rotting corpse, he ran, too. 

Back from the tree line to the house, Brian and Freddie in front of him, stumbling across the wet grass, even as Roger re-emerged clutching the fire poker. 

It turned out a dozen or so of the creatures had been lurking in the woods. 

This put raft building plans on hold for some time. 

\- - - 

DAY 7 

The freezing, torrential rain outside had been coming down for hours. Freddie sat as close to the fireplace as he could without his blanket catching fire, Brian on the other side of it, playing his guitar. In the last hour, he'd gone through several of their songs, occasionally glancing up at the others. But Freddie could no longer be persuaded to sing. John was curled up on the sofa with a cushion over his head and Roger was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharpening drum sticks with a kitchen knife. 

"What?" he'd said, when the others had watched him sit down to do it, "Won't fucking need them anymore, will I." 

No one had said anything since. 

Suddenly, Freddie jerked away from the side of the fireplace, looking around the room with a startled expression on his face. 

Brian stopped playing and heard it, too. A scratching, scuffling sound coming from somewhere in the room. They all stilled, half petrified and half curious, eyes searching for the source of the sound. A mad image of a severed, undead hand crawling around flashed through Brian's mind. But then they saw it. A fat rat poking its head out from under a cabinet, whiskers twitching. 

"Shh!" Roger hissed, and Freddie raised a hand to his mouth. 

They all sat perfectly still, John still dozing on the sofa, oblivious. As the rat emerged and ran across the room, Roger raised the drum stick he'd been sharpening. Brian's eyes went wide.

When the small animal passed within reach, the drummer's arm shot out and skewered the rat on the stick with lightning quick precision. There was an ear piercing squeal and a yelp, the latter from Freddie. 

"Whuh-!?" Exclaimed John, shooting up from the sofa, eyes bleary. 

Roger raised up the stick, his expression completely impassive as he looked at the impaled animal, still squirming and squealing loudly. Without hesitation, he slammed it down on the wooden floor hard. 

Silence fell once again, except for the sound of the rain outside. Freddie still had his hand over his mouth, a horrified look on his face. 

"Gross," said Roger, grimacing at the dead animal, and stood up to dispose of it outside. 

No one had moved by the time he returned and sat down again, picked up the knife and new drumstick, and started whistling a tune as he began to whittle it. 

John slowly lay back down, staring into the fire. Brian put his guitar away and Freddie scooted across to him, little by little, and lay down with his head in his lap. After a moment, Brian lifted his hand and ran his fingers through the singer's dark curls. 

The rain was easing up. 

\- - - 

DAY 8 

Nobody had verbally addressed the change in sleeping arrangements, but for the last few nights John had taken over the sofa and Brian had created a nest of blankets for himself on the floor beside the fireplace, leaving the bed upstairs to Freddie and Roger.

It couldn’t have been later than ten o’clock, but it felt like the middle of the night when everyone had finally settled in to sleep after a long day. Brian had been the last to tuck himself in, sitting up with the Red Special in hand for a long time, his mind a grey haze as he thoughtlessly played through riffs he would never play in front of an audience again. Until he realised that his fingers were no longer moving and he was just holding the guitar, staring at the strings. 

Now he was staring into the dying fire, absently stirring the glowing embers with the fire poker. Behind him on the sofa, John’s slow breathing indicated that he had already drifted off to sleep.

It was no surprise. There had been a sudden temperature rise, the sky clear and sunny from morning to night. John and Roger had spent most of the day chopping wood while ensuring neither of them was mauled by the creatures, a handful of which had wandered by and been disposed of. The heap of decomposing bodies was growing, and by afternoon the stench had turned Brian’s stomach while he had sat out in front of the shed with Freddie, working on the raft. There was rope burn on his hands from trying to tie the logs together tightly enough and the stench of smoke still clung to his hair. The latter was a result of Roger’s suggestion, late in the afternoon.

He had come up to Freddie and Brian, hands on his hips, squinting against the sun. 

“We should burn that,” he’d said, nodding at the rotting heap of corpses piled up behind the shed. “There’s a canister of petrol in the shed, you know.”

“We might need it for the van,” Brian had reasoned.

“To go where?” Roger had asked.

Brian hadn’t had an answer.

And so they had set the bodies alight.

The smell of decaying human flesh was bad. But somehow, the smell of burning human flesh was even more nauseating. Freddie hadn’t stuck around for the spectacle, volunteering to sort out dinner instead which at this point consisted of rice and canned peas.  
Brian hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. He didn’t have the stomach for it.

He had just, finally, closed his eyes when all of a sudden a now familiar noise from outside made him open them again. The gurgling, wheezing noise was still so distant it was very faint, but unmistakable still. Brian sighed tiredly, willing himself to pull himself up. The more days went by, the most decrepit the creatures became, walking corpses with sunken eyes and greyish-green skin. Appendages and jaw bones missing. It made them so much more gruesome, but so much less human and easier to dispose of. If everyone else was asleep, and there was only one of them, Brian could probably just sneak outside and make short work of it. But even so, his skin crawled and the noises, which were steadily coming closer, made his blood run cold.

But he wasn’t the only one still up.

John startled awake when the door upstairs slammed, followed by quick, determined footsteps on the stairs. Sitting up just in time, Brian caught a glimpse of Roger, shirtless, zipping up his trousers as he passed the doorway to the living room, headed for the front door. 

“Shit, what now?” John mumbled sleepily, sitting up on the sofa.

“Roger’s got it.” Brian told him numbly, listening closely as the disgusting, growling sounds of the undead got louder when Roger tore the door open. He heard the younger man’s grunt of effort, heard the axe lodge itself in squelching flesh. Once, and again. And then, a thud. 

Silence.

Half a minute later, Roger came back into view, a dark splatter across his bare chest, which was still rising and falling rapidly.

“Just the one,” he rasped and, looking down at himself, ran a finger across his chest, smudging the blood. “Ugh.” He realised he was still holding the axe and disappeared from sight to replace it beside the door. “I’ll go drag it behind the shed in the morning.”

“I’ll do it now,” murmured John through a yawn, climbing off the sofa.

“Oh,” Roger walked back into view and gave John a nod. “Cheers, Deaks. Night.” 

With that, the drummer headed back upstairs. As John left the living room, Brian dropped back down onto the floor. One hand draped over his forehead, he gazed at the ceiling open-mouthed and marvelled at their new normal. And the impressive ability of the human animal to _adapt_. Although he wasn’t sure that he was doing such a good job of it himself.

John returned with a gust of cold night air and threw himself back down onto the sofa with a grunt, his back to Brian. 

Upstairs, the bathroom door creaked and the floorboards groaned. Then the bedroom door fell shut and the house was quiet once more. 

Brian sighed deeply and closed his eyes. 

Some fifteen minutes later, he was pulled from the light slumber he had drifted into by a dull, rhythmic knocking sound and muffled groans. Alarmed at first, Brian listened carefully - and then squeezed his eyes shut tighter when he realised that the sounds were not coming from outside, but from upstairs. 

\- - - 

DAY 9 

John frowned, opening the wall cupboard and then checking in the cupboard under the counter. 

“Where the fuck is the cooking oil?” he called, mostly to himself, because he wasn’t sure who else was in earshot. He could see Brian and Freddie still working on the raft outside. It was almost finished. Which was just as well, because they were almost completely out of food and the water in the taps had turned yellowish. 

Freddie had grimaced, this morning, when he'd taken a sip from his mug of tea. But he'd drunk it anyway. 

Giving up his search, John slammed the cupboard shut, sighed and just emptied the oil from their last can of sardines into the frying pan instead. He threw in the diced potatoes, giving them a stir with the spatula, and grumbled to himself when they immediately stuck to the pan regardless, not really registering the sound of footsteps behind him rushing up the stairs, and back down a little while later. Not until he heard someone enter the kitchen and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Here,” said Roger, holding out the bottle of vegetable oil as he came up to him.

“Oh,” John blinked, “thanks.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at Roger, mouth still hanging open, before he quickly closed it again and turned back to the potatoes. They were now all definitely stuck to the pan.

Roger cleared his throat and placed the bottle on the counter. “I’ll just… leave it here.”

“Yes,” said John, side-eyeing the bottle suspiciously as Roger walked away.

\- - - 

DAY 10 

Freddie's loud shriek and the sound of a mug shattering on the tiles sent them all flying into the kitchen in record time, Brian and Roger armed with a shoe and candle holder respectively and John with his jumper half pulled on around his neck. 

Looking up at them with wide eyes, backed up against and very much almost sitting on the kitchen counter, Freddie pulled his lip over his teeth and raised his eyebrows with an apologetic expression on his face. 

"Spider," he uttered hoarsely, throwing a wary look at a large, brown garden spider scuttling across the floor beside the broken mug and the puddle of tea. "Sorry." 

They all watched the spider disappear under the fridge, their weapons still raised. There was a moment of silence, and then Freddie started laughing. The other three turned to look at him as one, their expressions such an assortment of confusion, worry and disbelief that it only made him laugh harder. He slid off the edge of the counter, all but doubling over. 

"Dearie me! Oh, sorry, I'm sorry-" he wheezed, waving his hand in their direction, "Just, the three of you! Standing there… like the Three Stooges!" 

As Brian lowered his shoe and blinked, he was surprised to find that there were tears in his eyes even as the corners of his mouth twitched up into a grin. It was only that none of them had laughed in what felt like forever. And now they were all laughing, looking at each other as if they were truly seeing each other for the first time in days. 

"What were you gonna do with _that_?" Roger snorted, pointing to Brian's shoe. 

"I've no idea!" Brian replied and tossed the shoe over his shoulder in the direction of the living room. 

When John got tangled in his jumper as he tried to finish pulling it on they were really done for. Roger fell against the door frame and howled with laughter, holding his stomach. Brian was wiping tears off his face and John was giggling uncontrollably. Freddie swooped in, pulling them all into a group hug. None of them had felt so _human_ in a long time. As the laughter subsided, they slowly separated, catching their breath.

Breathing. Still alive. 

"Tomorrow…" Freddie uttered quietly. The rest was left unsaid. The raft was finished. Tomorrow they would live or die. 

"We've made it this far." Roger pointed out, one hand clasped around Freddie's and the other on John's shoulder. 

Everyone nodded, exchanging glances but not holding each other's gaze for long. 

"I've always wanted my own private island." Roger said with a shrug and a grin. He pulled Freddie and John close. "Too bad I have to share it with you lot." 

Brian closed the circle and joined the hug from the other side, Freddie's arm around his waist and John's on his shoulder. 

That night, everyone returned to the bed upstairs for the night. No one was quite sure how it happened. When he had finished going through the wardrobe in search of the last useful bits of clothes they could pack, Brian sunk down onto the bed beside Freddie, exhausted.

"No." Freddie protested as Brian was about to get up again. The raven-haired man wrapped his arms around the guitarist's middle, pulling him down. When John poked his head in a little while later, looking for Brian, Freddie simply stretched out his hand toward him. Roger's only comment when he came into the room was a quiet grunt of acknowledgement, before he blew out the candle and climbed into bed. 

But John couldn't sleep.

The wind was rattling the shutters. It sounded just like the hammering and knocking of the undead at the window. The others all had their eyes closed. John doubted any of them were asleep either. Brian kept sighing, lying close behind John. Roger kept shifting restlessly behind Freddie, who lay facing John, their knees touching and faces so close they could feel each other's breath. He had a small frown on his face. Or perhaps it was just the fearful look of the despair they all felt. 

Every one of them was keenly aware that there was every chance none of them would survive the day to come. Or perhaps only some of them would, which was almost worse.

This was, quite possibly, their last night on this earth.

John sighed and absently continued to trace the lines of Freddie's face with his gaze, trying to figure out how he felt. Sad? That was too mild a word. Afraid? Yes. Hopeless? Yes, and by God, he couldn't believe he'd never have a cheese sandwich again or a pint down the pub or the chance to listen to his favourite records. Just something normal. 

No. Normality was gone. 

His eyes caught on Freddie's lips. John had the mad urge to kiss them. It wasn't like he was into blokes at all. But it wasn't like he was into hacking human bodies to pieces, either. Somehow, none of that seemed to matter much anymore. Roger might sock him, of course, although at this point even that was a strangely welcome thought. What John wanted more than anything was to feel alive, while he still was. 

When he looked back up, Freddie's eyes were open. 

"Can't sleep." John murmured, holding his gaze. 

Freddie gave a quiet hum of acknowledgement. They stared at each other for a long time, in the dark. It had been many, many nights since Freddie had slept. _Really_ slept. He spent the nights in a state of semi-lucid unrest, pulling the pillow over his head until he could barely breathe, pressing his ear to Roger's chest so his heartbeat might drown out the noise inside him. Although it never really did. The only time his mind didn't feel like a terrified, screaming, trapped animal darting around his skull was when his body was overwhelmed. The only time he could still _feel_ himself and knew he was still real was when Roger was all he could see, feel and breathe. Wrapped around him. Beside him. Inside him. He wondered if John still felt real and brought a hand up from underneath the duvet, resting his fingertips against the bassist's cheek. John's lips parted, eyebrows drawing together a little as his eyes flicked to Freddie's lips once more. 

"Freddie," he whispered in the dark.

"Yes." Freddie breathed. It wasn't a question. It was permission. 

The kiss wasn't gentle. John crushed Freddie's lips with his own, pent up desperation and frustration pouring through the cracks. And then the floodgates opened and John's tongue was in his mouth. Roger's hand tightened on Freddie's hip, and Freddie grabbed it, pulling Roger's arm around himself. When he let go, there was only a moment's hesitation before Roger's fingers slipped underneath Freddie's shirt, trailing up his stomach to his chest. John's hands were in his hair now, pulling, holding him in place. Roger's teeth on his neck, John's tugging at his lower lip. The louder their combined muffled gasps and irregular breathing became, the more they drowned out the howling desperation inside Freddie and he surrendered to those hands and lips and teeth with mindless abandon. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, catching Brian's eye in the dark, the guitarist's face half-hidden behind John's head. But then Roger's hand slid past the waistband of his briefs while John recaptured his mouth, and Freddie squeezed his eyes shut with a moan. 

Surprise was, evidently, no longer something Brian was capable of. Even though he certainly hadn't expected _this_. Then again, he hadn't expected the dead to rise up and walk the earth or to die a gruesome death in his early 20s, so it was all relative. Leaving at this point seemed about as awkward as just closing his eyes and waiting it out, and so he didn't move, indecision making the choice for him. 

John was only vaguely aware of Roger rolling over to reach for something on the bedside table, because Freddie was stroking John's cock through his underwear now and that felt really fucking good. For all those teeth in the way, Freddie was also a really good kisser, it turned out. Either way, John had no regrets. Only questions. The main one being whether he could bring himself to touch another man's dick. It seemed a bit rude not to, at this point. Those questions were pushed aside, however, when Freddie's hand dipped inside his underwear, long fingers wrapping around him. Without thinking, John pulled his briefs down enough to get them out of the way and cursed against Freddie's lips when the singer started tossing him off. Looking for something to hold on to, John found Freddie's hip and realised he was now naked from the waist down. When had that happened? Before he had time to process this information, Freddie threw his leg over John's legs, moaning into his mouth. 

Roger had decided that if this was going to fucking happen, then it was going to happen good and proper. Might as well go out with a bang. Quite literally. The vegetable oil still seemed like the better idea, but the hand lotion would have to do. Freddie certainly wasn't complaining as Roger worked a second finger inside him. 

Both John and Brian started to catch on when Freddie turned over his shoulder, one arm curling up. His hand gripped the back of Roger's neck as Roger stole his lips back from John, swallowing the steady stream of little 'ah's and 'oh's which escaped them. 

Freddie's hand on John's cock had lost its rhythm. Not that the bassist had taken much notice. He was far too overwhelmed by what was going on right in front of him. And the fact that they were now so close he could feel Freddie's dick rubbing up against his stomach. Then Freddie turned his face into the pillow, the expression on it a picture of beautiful agony, although the sounds he made were pure delight. 

"Oh shit," John mumbled as Roger's slippery fingers brushed over his hand on Freddie's hip, looking for purchase. Finding himself with Freddie's thigh sliding up to his hip, John grabbed onto that instead, instinctively pushing into that sweet friction between their bodies while Roger pushed inside Freddie.

Not for the first time in his life, Brian felt like he hadn't been invited to this party. But it was impossible to ignore or remain unaffected by the writhing tangle of bodies beside him. The _noises_. The very air was charged with it and tingled around them.  
The point of Not-Giving-A-Fuck-Anymore finally reached, his hand was in his pants before he could think better of it. And then, he joined the others in not thinking altogether. 

Roger's face was buried in Freddie's hair, his moans breathless and raspy against his ear. There were hands everywhere, no one any longer quite certain or much concerned about who or what they were touching. Nails grazing over skin, fingers tangling in long hair. It was an awkward, sweaty, heady mess. Freddie grabbed John's arse, pushing their hips tighter together as he moved in time with Roger's thrusts. This was the closest to sex John had ever got and very nearly enough to push him over the edge. This time it was Freddie who crashed into John's lips, the kiss only interrupted by their gasps and whimpers.

"Fuck-"

"Ah! Yeah…"

"Nghh_god_."

Freddie's moans reached a crescendo when Roger started pounding him hard, holding him in place with a steely grip on his hip. If John hadn't known better he would've guessed Freddie was in pain, what with the noises he was making. 

Roger growled as he came with a few short, sharp thrusts, biting down on Freddie's shoulder through his shirt. He stilled, pulled out and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling and catching his breath. Freddie was flushed, mouth hanging open and eyes half-closed. But as he blinked his eyes open, his trembling fingers found John's cock again. John leaned in and kissed him once more, thrusting his tongue deep into his mouth. And then he was pulling him closer, tearing at his shirt with a sudden and fierce determination.

"Darling," Freddie breathed, breaking the kiss and trying to pull out of the vice grip John had on his arm now.

John's fingers closed around it tighter.

"Please," John begged, wrestling him face down into the pillow. "_Please-_"

Freddie closed his eyes with a breathy little moan and stopped struggling when John climbed on top of him, one leg on either side of him.

"John," Roger rasped, lifting himself up on one elbow with a frown on his face. Freddie turned his head to look at him and reached out, pulling the blond drummer down beside him. 

"Come here, Blondie," he whispered, and silenced him with a kiss even as John clumsily positioned himself.

"Oh fuck, oh my _god_," John whined, sinking into the slippery heat of the other man's body. And then he was moaning uncontrollably over the top of the soft, breathy noises Freddie was making, muffled against Roger's lips. John's hand found Roger's and Freddie's, their fingers intertwined, and closed around them, clinging to them. He was faintly aware of Brian's laboured breathing to his left as he worked his hand up and down his own cock, watching them. One of Brian's hands slipped underneath John's shirt, stroking his back and his side. The whole thing was utterly mind-blowing, which wasn't unusual really as far as first times go. John's hips stuttered before he'd even really got going and he finished about a minute in, panting into Freddie's hair, slack-jawed and eyes rolling back into his head with delight.

He collapsed on top of the dark-haired man and then slowly rolled off, straight into Roger, who released Freddie and shifted back to make room for him. Oh, what the hell, John thought, and cupped the back of Roger's neck, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Oh, what the hell, thought Roger, and kissed him back, lewdly licking into his mouth and grinding himself against John's thigh, still half-hard. 

Oh, what the hell, thought Brian, feeling rather neglected on his end. He wrapped an arm around Freddie and pulled him close, Freddie's back flush against his chest as he sank his teeth into the singer's earlobe. Curious fingers dipped between Freddie's buttocks, exploring his stretched hole, slick with lotion and come, with an almost scientific curiosity. A weak, shuddering moan rolled over Freddie's lips. Brian groaned, steadying his cock, and pushed into the inviting heat of the other's body in one unforgiving thrust. Oh, what the hell, Freddie thought, limp in Brian's arms as he allowed himself to be manhandled and taken for a third time, Brian's thrusts punctuated with Freddie's faint whimpers.

Becoming aware of the proceedings at the other side of the bed, Roger climbed over John and claimed Freddie's lips again, reaching down between them to toss him off hard and fast. Freddie's soft whimpers soon became moans. He broke away from Roger's lips, eyes squeezed shut, and turned his head back over his shoulder toward Brian, who eagerly captured his mouth in an open-mouthed kiss. One of Roger's hands had snaked its way beneath Freddie's shirt and he pinched one of his nipples, rolling it between his fingers.

Brian was pounding him in earnest now and Freddie came with a hoarse outcry of pleasure, one hand tangled in Brian's curls and the other clutching the front of Roger's shirt. The guitarist soon followed with a series of erratic thrusts, fingers digging into Freddie's hip hard enough to bruise.

John was pretty confident he could probably do that all over again right now as he lay watching them, lazily stroking himself. But he didn't want to be a nuisance.

They separated, pulled up their underwear and drew the blankets tighter around themselves, gazing up at the ceiling, speechless for some time in light of what had just happened.

"Um," Brian cleared his throat, lightly caressing Freddie's shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Freddie snuggled into Roger, the blond drummer's arms around him.

"Are any of us?" he murmured numbly and closed his eyes.

Roger kissed the top of his head. John and Brian wrapped their arms around them from either end, hands meeting in the middle and fingers linking.

John felt marginally better about dying now.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact!
> 
> Osea Island is home to a recording studio now, which was at some point owned/used by the record company set up by one John Richard Deacon. I didn't know that when I picked the island, complete awesome coincidence. 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought!


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